Women's History
by non-canonical
Summary: Nick Cutler's story starts with blood; Rachel's story ends the same way. What happens in between? (Nick/Rachel Cutler)


**Title: **Women's History  
**Fandom: **Being Human  
**Pairing:** Nick/Rachel Cutler  
**Spoilers: **4x07 _Making History  
_**Warnings: **A little bit of blood. Implied character death.  
**Disclaimer: **_Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.

**Summary: **Nick Cutler's story starts with blood; Rachel's story ends the same way. And in between?

* * *

The telephone rings just as the Cutlers are sitting down to dinner. Rachel lets Nick answer it; she already knows what it's going to be. It's why they had the thing installed: so Nick could be at his clients' beck and call.

"They need me at the police station," he tells her.

He's no happier about it than she is, but complaining won't do any good. She hands him his briefcase, and he pauses to give her a kiss before he dashes out the door.

Rachel eats her meal while it's still hot – no point in letting good food spoil – and she sets Nick's plate aside for later. When she's finished the dishes, she switches on the wireless and busies herself with darning Nick's socks.

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes the hour. It's getting late; Nick's been gone a long time. He's working too hard, but that's how he's going to get ahead. He won't be a duty solicitor forever. Someone is going to recognise his talents, and then things will be different.

Her eyes are too tired for the black on black; she sets her work aside. The sweet sound of a violin comes over the wireless – something classical, but she doesn't know the composer. Surely Nick won't be too much longer. She's just going to rest her eyes while she waits.

Rachel startles awake, but it's just the front door closing. It's just Nick. He's creeping down the hall, trying not to wake her.

"I'm in here," she calls out.

He stands, swaying, in the doorway, a pale apparition that drives her from her seat, her heart thumping.

"Are you all right?" She drags him into the light. "You look like you've been in a fight. What's happened?"

"There was a bit of trouble at the station," he tells her, "but it's going to be all right." He slumps into his armchair. "Everything is going to be all right," he keeps repeating. His eyes tell a different story.

Rachel steers her husband up to bed, because she doesn't know what else to do. She watches him sleep. And when she can't bear to see him twitch and whimper any longer, she goes downstairs and washes his shirt. Once blood has set, it never comes out.

Nick is having an affair – what else is she supposed to think? His hours become erratic; he goes out in the middle of the night when Rachel knows the telephone hasn't rung.

Nick hovers around her, guilty and apologetic. He doesn't want to touch her any more. He's tired. He has papers to read. Once, he even has a headache, and that's supposed to be her excuse. When he kisses her it feels like she's kissing a stranger.

"Things are a bit hectic at work," he tells her, when he comes home late one evening and finds her scraping his dinner into the bin.

It would be simple enough to check: she could walk down to his office, or the police station, or wherever it is that he's supposed to be. But that would make it too real, too final, and she wants to cling to her uncertainty a little longer.

Rachel finds a smear of red on her husband's collar, but it isn't lipstick. If it were, then at least she'd understand what's going on.

With the way that soap's still rationed, Rachel struggles to keep up with the laundry. It's mud all over Nick's shirt this time, and he stammers out an excuse when she confronts him about it. He's never been able to lie to her; he's never wanted to. She scrubs at the stains until her hands turn red and start to sting, and she blinks away her tears.

It must be something criminal. Nick's got himself mixed up in something dangerous, and he's trying to shield her from it. They're close to the East End, and the racketeers have been thriving since the war ended.

"Is it money trouble?" Rachel asks. "Because I could –"

"It's not about money," he tells her.

Which isn't an explanation but it's a beginning, the first step towards closing the distance that's opened up between them, and she finds herself starting to cry. She wants to hug Nick – wants him to hug her – but she mustn't be clingy. He'll tell her the rest in his own time.

Nick's hands are always cold; Rachel worries that he's ill.

"You don't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive," she frets. She doesn't want to nag; she can't always stop herself.

She cooks his favourite steak and kidney pie. He dutifully clears his plate, but as soon at the last mouthful is gone he's putting on his coat and hat. She doesn't wait up. She wakes to find him undressing, and she sees the scratches, fresh and angry, on his shoulder. Rachel knows she wasn't the one who put them there: they haven't made love since this all began.

She was right the first time: he's having an affair. But something still doesn't ring true, and her head's in such a muddle. She needs someone to talk to, but her mother always said that Nick would be a disappointment, and Rachel will be damned if she's going to give her the satisfaction. Maybe this is just what married life is like.

"Let's get out of the city," she says. "It's perfect weather for a picnic."

Nick spends too long indoors – in offices and cells and courtrooms – and he always leaps at the chance to get out in the sunshine. Rachel loves the way his skin turns pink; she loves his freckles. She loves him, and she wants him back – her Nick, not this man who sits in the shade and hides his eyes behind a pair of sunglasses.

"You look like a film star," she laughs, but it isn't funny. Ordinary people don't wear sunglasses.

On their first anniversary, Nick gives his wife a gold watch that he couldn't possibly afford. She puts on her prettiest dress, and he takes her dancing. You'd never think it to look at him, but Nick Cutler is a wonderful dancer. They drink too much wine, and she holds onto his arm as they walk home under the stars.

"Remember this?" she asks, switching on the gramophone. He pulls her close and leads her into a waltz.

"We'll have this moment forever," Rachel sings. She closes her eyes and lets herself pretend that everything's the way it used to be.

The telephone rings. Nick flinches, and stops so abruptly that she treads on his toes. She follows him into the hall.

"Not tonight, please," her husband is saying, and he twists the telephone cord tighter and tighter around his hand. Rachel can't hear the answer, but Nick gulps and stammers, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

She clutches at his arm as he passes, but he twists out of her grasp.

"Nick," she chokes through sudden tears, but he's already gone.

She stands there, listening to Doris Day sing about how she'll never have that perfect moment again. She goes to bed alone.

Rachel wants to know who's making those mysterious calls, who has the power to take Nick away from her like that.

Then she's woken one night by the sound of voices, and she finds her husband out in the garage with three strange men. She retreats to their bedroom and waits, but when Nick comes upstairs he climbs straight into bed and turns to face the wall.

"Henry Yorke," she says, just to test his reaction. "I thought I'd met all your colleagues. Is he new?" Nick doesn't speak, but she sees his shoulders stiffen.

Henry Yorke: handsome; cocky; a charming smile. He'd returned her husband to her without complaint. But Rachel saw the way that Nick looked at her – the way that Nick looked at _him_. There was something about Mr Yorke that made her afraid for them both.

"There's something going on, isn't there? Something to do with him." She can the rising hysteria in her voice. "Why won't you talk to me, Nick?"

He silences her with a kiss. There's hunger in it, real hunger, and it's been far too long since she had his weight to anchor her. He hitches up her nightdress. But when he thrusts inside her, he turns his head away.

In the morning they sit down to breakfast together. Nick hardly speaks; he doesn't eat. He stares at her, like he's studying every contour of her face, and Rachel almost blushes, for all that they share a bed. He squeezes her hand, and she thinks that this is it, that he's finally going to tell her.

He hangs his head. "I have to go," he says.

Nick comes home early that evening; he locks and bolts the door behind him.

He watches her all the time, and she doesn't know what it means. He flinches at the slightest noise. It's almost a relief when he's not there, but his nervousness is catching, and she doesn't like being in the house on her own any more.

It's her time of the month, and Rachel's tired and irritable. But Peggy's brought the baby round, and they always cheer her up.

"What's wrong?" Peggy asks. "You're out of sorts."

Rachel doesn't answer: little Jamie is determinedly crawling towards the fire, and she scoops him up. He thrashes his arms and legs, and sends his rattle hurtling to the floor.

"You little monkey." She bounces him on her hip until he claps his hands and gurgles in delight.

"You've been married a year," Peggy says. "It's about time you had one of your own."

"We will," Rachel tells her. But a friend's a friend, and it takes more than a brave face to fool them.

"Is there a problem in that department? Something wrong with Nick?"

Rachel laughs. There's something wrong – she's sure of that, can feel it in her bones – but not in the way that Peggy means. Not in any of the ways that Peggy could imagine. Rachel's husband has never hit her, never even raised his voice. He puts food on the table and pays the bills on time.

How can she explain all those things that just aren't normal? That Nick has taken down all the mirrors in the house. That, when she started bleeding yesterday, he buried his head between her legs and –

"You will be all right, won't you?" Peggy takes her hand as she gets up to leave.

"Of course I will," Rachel tells her. A friend may be a friend, but there are some things that you have to deal with alone.

Rachel piles the tea things back onto the tray. There's something peeking out from under the table: Jamie's rattle. She snatches it up. If she's quick, she'll catch Peggy before her bus turns up.

The doorbell rings; Rachel hurries into the hall, the rattle in her hand. It isn't Peggy.

She can see the outline of a trench coat, a fedora, but the man's face is a blur behind the frosted glass. She shudders, although she couldn't say exactly why. A part of her wants to turn and walk away, but she's worn out with all her worrying, and exhaustion gives her a kind of desperate courage.

She opens the door and death smiles at her.


End file.
